It happened on a rainy Sunday in October. Zara had invited Lucia to her studio—a converted garage behind a bakery, smelling of clay and wet earth. Lucia sat on a stool, Pippin curled in her lap (because of course she’d brought the cat), watching Zara throw a pot on the wheel. It was mesmerizing: the way Zara’s hands moved, sure and patient, coaxing shape from mud.
That was the only evidence she’d ever need. lucia love and zara durose
Zara didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away either. It happened on a rainy Sunday in October
“Oh, gods, I’m so sorry,” Lucia said, already kneeling. It was mesmerizing: the way Zara’s hands moved,
“What’s right in front of you now?”
“I make a lot of things. Break a lot of things, too. The mugs are the survivors.”
Lucia turned her head. Zara was close—close enough that Lucia could see the tiny scar above her eyebrow, the way her dark eyes had gone soft at the edges. Lucia’s heart did something messy and unpoetic, like dropped dishes.